


Thank God That Noodle Joint Is Still Open On Holidays

by StygianSea



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Bad Cooking, Cooking, Dorian fails at everything for once, Holidays, John is Not Amused, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:30:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StygianSea/pseuds/StygianSea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to popular belief, Dorian is actually pretty shit at cooking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank God That Noodle Joint Is Still Open On Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving everyone!! ^^
> 
> This ship is going to KILL me. Jorian has brought my muse back. It's TERRIBLE. I stayed up for an EXTRA HOUR after NO sleep this morning just to write this XD I wanted it in before the holiday in my time zone! ^^;
> 
> And yes, I am aware that a three-fourths cup may exist... but *I* haven't seen one (poor excuse to conclude non-existence, I know) and besides it made a great excuse for (hopeful) hilarity, so~

John fell against the door as it shut behind him, closing his eyes and letting out a heavy breath. He had forgotten all about the mandatory holiday parties – it had been what, two years? – but try as he might, he couldn’t get out of it. To top it off, their android partners weren’t allowed, so there was no Dorian to keep him company. Building team rapport, as Maldonado had said. With his fellow humans. He didn’t understand how being the butt of Richard’s verbal attacks for longer than necessary could possibly be a good thing.

But, somehow, he’d made it through… And now he just wanted to get rid of this damn leg, collapse into bed with Dorian, and take a nice, long—

—was that smoke?

John’s eyes snapped open and he pushed himself off the door, rushing through the house. As he caught sight of the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks.

There were pots and pans everywhere, littering the floor. Cabinets were flung open, their contents scattered across the countertops. Spoons and whisks, knives and spatulas were strewn across the remaining empty space. The sink was overflowing with dishes and utensils, water still dripping from the faucet. The electric stove was lit up with blue lights; on top of one of the burners, a large pot sat, with smoke billowing from it thickly towards the ceiling. And in the midst of it all stood Dorian: holding a two-pronged fork in one hand, eyes blown wide like he had been caught red-handed.

John stood – motionless, speechless – staring at the chaos in front of him. His own eyes had flown wide; and his mouth would have been hanging open, too, if it were in his nature to do so. Having semi-processed the scene in front of him, he opened his mouth – tentatively – and ventured a confirmation.

“Dorian… What. The _hell_. Are you doing?!”

Dorian blinked once, then twice; then his face lit up in that quintessential smile of his. “I was making you dinner, man.”

“You set the kitchen on fire!” John yelled, gesturing angrily at the smoke-spewing pot.

Dorian turned to glance at it, then back at John. “But I put it out.”

“The hell were you trying to cook, anyway?!” John asked, taking a step into the disaster area.

“A turkey, obviously.”

John’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “A turk—? God dammit, Dorian, _why_ —”

“But it is Thanksgiving, is it not?” Dorian interrupted, setting down the fork, the blue lights lighting up his temples. “A turkey is the most traditional food item served in the American observance of the holiday, along with mashed potatoes, cranberries, corn, and pumpkin pie.”

John groaned and put his hand to his face. It had already been a long day – he had had enough of Thanksgiving for a lifetime, thanks to his colleagues – and now he was going to have to spend all night cleaning up this fucking mess. Great.

“I need some coffee,” he mumbled, making his way – perilously, with all that crap on the floor – over to the counter where the coffee machine sat. He reached out to grab the pot when he noticed something strange.

“…Dorian, why is there pasta in the coffee maker?”

“Well, all the pans were being used,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “I did have another one but I accidentally burned it…”

John breathed in deeply through his nose, held it for three seconds, and let it out slowly through his mouth.

“Dorian… How – the _hell_ – do you burn a pan?”

“I got distracted.”

John spun around, his face the picture of disbelief. “What could _possibly_ distract you so much that you _burned a pan?!_ ”

“I was looking for the three-fourths cup,” Dorian replied, smiling that innocent smile of his. “The recipe called for three-fourths cup of butter, so I was looking for it and I forgot I had left the pan on the stove and all the water boiled away and then the pan started to burn—”

“Three-fourth…?” John breathed, incredulous. “Dorian, there’s no such thing!”

“Yeah, I realized that after a while,” Dorian said, frowning slightly and biting his lip.

John heaved another deep sigh and passed his eyes across the room again. They landed on a heap of orange sludge sitting on the floor near the sink.

“Do I even want to know what the hell that’s supposed to be?” he asked, pointing with his finger.

Dorian turned to see what he was looking at. “Oh, that was going to be the pumpkin pie.”

“And what happened with that?” John asked, not sure he wanted to know.

“Well, I seemed to have gotten a bit distracted again—”

“Shocker—”

“—because the recipe wanted a little salt, but I wasn’t sure exactly how much was required. I mean I know – I am nothing if not precise – that a dash is one-eighth of a teaspoon, a pinch is one-sixteenth, and a smidge is one-thirty-twoth, but I wasn’t sure how much a ‘little’ should be and so I was researching that but by the time I had given up it had devolved into this bubbling mass of goo and—”

John had long stopped listening. He made his way slowly to the counter, pulling back the chair and sitting down heavily, lifting his hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. Yep, that was definitely a migraine coming on.

It was silent in the kitchen for a few moments. Then John heard Dorian’s voice again, soft and unsure.

“John?”

He looked up to see Dorian standing there with what could only be described as a look of utter sadness.

“I’m sorry. I’ll clean it all up, I promise.”

John felt himself relax a bit. He wasn’t mad at Dorian – hell, he could barely get upset _around_ him. But he was tired, and frustrated, and he just wanted to know why. He sighed and sat back in his chair. “Dorian, why did you do all this…?”

“I don’t know, I just…” Dorian lowered his head, staring down at the counter in front of him. “I guess I just wanted to experience what Thanksgiving was like, you know? They didn’t allow androids at the holiday party, and I knew you wouldn’t enjoy it, so I thought I’d come back here and cook for us and we could have our own Thanksgiving by ourselves…”

John closed his eyes again, hating the fact that what Dorian had said was true. For some reason, androids had been declined invitations – perhaps it was assumed that the MXs wouldn’t get much from a “community strengthening event,” much less one that took place on something as incoherent to them as a human holiday.

But Dorian was _not_ an MX – and John fully believed that he should have been able to participate – but Maldonado had convinced him it might not be a good idea. Too early, she had said. People weren’t ready for that. And, listening to the remarks that Richard had kept spewing all night long, John had to admit she’d been right.

John decided not to press it, and asked the one burning question that had been nagging him since he’d stepped foot into the kitchen.

“Dorian, how the _hell_ does an android manage to be _this_ bad at cooking?”

“Well, I wanted to do it myself,” Dorian said, sheepishly. “I know I was kept out of the party because I’m not human… I thought if I could do this without any of the usual help, then maybe…”

John gazed at him and felt something tugging at his heart. It was so sad to see Dorian like this. In the months he had known Dorian, he’d come to see him as more human than the people he was surrounded by every day. Every glance, touch, kiss, solidified that within him. And here Dorian was, attempting to make a glorious feast for him (well, at least _half_ for him)… John couldn’t help but smile.

That is, until he registered the apron Dorian was wearing.

“Is that a turkey?”

It was definitely a turkey.

A cartoon one, but a turkey nonetheless.

Holding a ladle.

The smile slid right off his face.

If Dorian could blush, he would have.

“It made me feel more authentic, man.”

John groaned in (half?) mock pain. “God, you are such a dork. And you have flour on your face! Jesus, get over here.”

Dorian came around the counter and stood in front of him. John raised his hand to Dorian’s face, rubbing his thumb across the other man’s skin until the offensive powder was gone. He stared into Dorian’s eyes for a moment, marveling at the striking blue, wondering how such a beautiful thing had ended up with someone so broken as him. Then he pulled Dorian towards him, said, “Think I missed a spot,” and pressed their lips together.

They kissed for a moment, John running circles across Dorian’s cheek, letting the long day, the absurdity of this mess he’d found, fall away from him. After a while Dorian pulled back slightly, draping his arms around John’s neck and pressing their foreheads together.

“Your elevated heart rate suggests that you were lying about missing a spot,” he murmured against John's lips.

“Why couldn’t you have done that shit before you dropped a frozen turkey in a pot of boiling oil?” John retorted.

“Yeah, I probably should’ve looked at that one. The first search results that come up tell you basically _not_ to do exactly that. There are horror stories everywhere.”

John chuckled, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s waist and pulling him close. “Well, thank god that noodle joint is still open on holidays. Otherwise we’d be in much deeper shit.”

“I’ll have to agree with you there,” Dorian admitted.

“You up for a ‘little’ late night snack?” John teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“You mention this again and I’ll give you a ‘little’ something to shove right up your ass.”

John laughed brightly and leaned into Dorian, holding him tight for just a while longer. He let himself forget about everything – about that ridiculous party, and Richard’s vulgar remarks. He didn’t think about the mess that sat waiting for them, and the cleanup he’d have to do sometime in the near future. No, right now all he thought about was the strong, sturdy, undeniably _human_ body in his arms, and the indescribable person that resided within it. The person who could make all his worries fall away with just one smile. John was grateful that – even if he couldn’t cook worth a damn – at least Dorian was here with him.

And that was more than enough to be thankful for.


End file.
